


The F1 Coffee!Verse - flashbacks and flash-forwards

by Korrigan131



Series: The F1 Coffee!Verse [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27699317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korrigan131/pseuds/Korrigan131
Summary: Does what it says on the tin - all the parts which are set outside of the 2012 season.
Relationships: Felipe Massa/Rob Smedley, François Cevert/Jackie Stewart, Jaime Alguersuari/Sebastian Vettel, Jenson Button/David Coulthard, Jenson Button/Nico Rosberg, Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel, Karun Chandhok/Bruno Senna, Kimi Räikkönen/Jaime Alguersuari, Rubens Barrichello/Nico Hulkenberg, Sébastien Buemi/Jaime Alguersuari
Series: The F1 Coffee!Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025593
Kudos: 1





	1. A new restaurant has two new employees

“Bruno, this is Karun. Karun, Bruno.”

The two new employees had shaken hands, and smiled at each other, exchanging polite hellos. Then, in the main space of the brand new restaurant, that still smelt of fresh paint and new wood, their boss had sat them both down at a shiny little table with plastic wrapping still around the legs, and had begun to explain their duties and sort out their hours.

Afterwards, they’d wandered outside together, the chef and the sommelier, blinking in the sunlight and grinning with shared delight that they’d finally, _finally_ started the careers they’d always wanted. They had been about to go their separate ways, with mutual _Nice to meet yous_ , when Karun had suggested that perhaps, they could go out for coffee? After all, it might be nice to get to know each other, seeing as they’d be working together, and especially as, well, he didn’t know that many people in town… Bruno had smiled, _Sure, why not?_ because he knew better than most what this town could be like for newcomers – _intimidating_ didn’t come close sometimes. And, he doesn’t suppose Karun knows, does he, that Bruno had lived here before, as a kid, a very long time ago. So maybe, after coffee, Bruno could show him around?

And as for that coffee, well, Bruno knows just the place…


	2. Living the "dream"

It would have been so easy to be bitter or angry about how things at HRTapas were turning out; for most people it probably would have been easi _er_ in fact, with all their bright, hopeful dreams coming to nothing, despite their best efforts, feeling the place stagnating around them even as they dragged themselves through every day. But Bruno wasn’t like that. It was probably a weakness, but when you’d lost an uncle and a father, well there were two ways to look at life after things like that, and he’d never really gone in for that sort of resentment – he had the proof; life was too short.

It wasn’t their faults though, or anyone’s fault in particular – without the customers, they couldn’t afford the best ingredients or enough staff, and without those they couldn’t get the customers – it was a vicious circle. And being miles out of the town centre didn’t help either. They might have pulled the location off if they’d been Michelin starred to start with, or had somehow built up a reputation in a very short amount of time, but it wasn’t to be.

At least he was lucky enough to not be the only one there possessing such a cheery outlook; Karun might not have been quite the beacon of sunshine and light that Bruno could be, but he wasn’t one to complain or grumble. Which was probably why the two of them got on so well, and why their shifts together weren’t just hours of boredom and drudgery. And together, they were just about getting through.

(Sometimes though, when Bruno was alone and no one was asking his opinion, he wondered if his time at a place that was struggling so badly would be a black mark on his CV, rather than the _valuable experience_ he always argued it was…)

*

“How’s the tip jar going? Enough for us to go out for coffee yet?”

_Saving up just to go out for a decent cappuccino_ – that was a point Bruno had never thought he’d be at in his life.

There was a single note in the jar, along with the coppers at the bottom (which they’d left there to stop it looking so desperately, pathetically sad), and Bruno grinned an overly surprised and delighted smile as he showed the jar off with a flourish.

Karun just shook his head. “I saw you put that in there from your own wallet, Bruno…” he tutted. “Did you really think I’d believe anyone would tip notes in this place?” and he was laughing, because that was typical Bruno, so overly generous, and always trying his best to cheer everyone up, even to his own disadvantage.

“I guess not…” Bruno shrugged. “You can’t blame me for wanting to treat you though. It’s been a long time since you got to have anything nice…”

Karun laughed in his near-disbelief at how anyone quite like his friend could actually exist in the real world. “It’s been a long time since _you_ got to have anything nice either!” He took the note out of the jar and pressed it into Bruno’s hand. “And be honest, you shouldn’t be spending money on me, because I bet you haven’t fixed your bike yet, have you?”

“But…”

“No buts!” _No one should have the right to look so distressed about not being allowed to practically throw their money away,_ Karun thought. “Oh for goodness sake, alright, alright.” He sighed defeatedly, because it was near impossible to refuse Bruno normally, let alone when he was being like this. “We’ll go somewhere on Saturday, Café Renault? They’re the cheapest I can think of…”

“Ahh, we could get one of their mochas, with the whipped cream on…” Bruno mused dreamily, tilting his head back and letting his eyes close as he imagined.

“We’d have to share one between us if you’re set on those, they’re the most expensive thing they do!”

“Mm, romantic…”

When Karun looked back Bruno’s eyes were twinkling, he was being both completely serious and teasing at the same time, somehow.

“So what, this is a date now, is it?” Karun laughed in reply, keeping things purposefully as light-hearted as possible, because… well, _because_ (because pursuing those thoughts when he had to be in the same room as Bruno always led to an awkward moment of being asked what he was daydreaming about), and going back to the counter to pick up the stack of menus.

Bruno didn’t respond, and when Karun looked back up, Bruno was watching him carefully with those soft brown eyes, and with half a smile, as if waiting to hear an answer; an answer that he seemed to already know to a question he hadn’t yet asked.

“Would you like it to be?”

Karun blinked, because he couldn’t get words into line straightaway.

“I, er, I hadn’t…” Then he stopped himself, because he had to be honest – the answer didn’t even need thinking about. “Yeah, I would,” and he let himself smile just a little bit.

Bruno quite literally bounced at that answer, not even trying to temper his megawatt smile.

“Okay then, it is,” Bruno said, still grinning, voice light but a tiny hint of shy sincerity that suggested, perhaps, he hadn’t been as certain of Karun’s answer as he’d seemed.

“On one condition,” Karun added, to which Bruno’s expression flickered with uncertainty. “Don’t you dare try to pay for everything yourself!”

Bruno’s smile got even bigger, and somewhere in amongst the _what-the-heck-just-happened-is-this-actually-happening-please-don’t-be-dreaming,_ Karun found himself thinking that maybe if they wanted to save money on electricity, they could just leave Bruno out front grinning instead of turning on the lights…


	3. Vitaly is new in town

The little hostel was practically empty, and Vitaly had been the only one in his dorm the night before – apparently Fia wasn’t much of a tourist town. He didn’t know why though; it seemed a pretty enough place – a mix of quirky architecture, great views, a popular-looking, pristine and sandy beach, and the guidebook seemed to have plenty to say.

Precisely _what_ it had to say, though, was currently a mystery. In a fit of optimism Vitaly had bought a guidebook in English, rather than his native Russian – he was here to learn the language after all, that was the _point_ of the Get Practicing Programme (otherwise known as the GP2 language school), so buying a guidebook in Russian had seemed to defeat the point. But having spent the past couple of hours lying on his bunk with his books, trying to translate the chunks that had seemed the most interesting, struggling through the words that he vaguely recognised, and flicking frustratedly through the dictionary for those he didn’t at all, well, he was starting to regret that earlier optimism…

On the other hand, there were only a couple of days before the course started, so he could probably get by just with his sense of direction and the small amount of the language he’d mastered back at home. He was starting to get hungry as it was, it being nearly lunchtime already, so he’d have to leave the hostel eventually.

He swung himself around to sit on the edge of the bed, and stared down at his books. Just one more look, and if he was still flummoxed, he’d just head out anyway.

The dorm door opened whilst Vitaly was in the middle of puzzling over the grammar of an especially strange paragraph, and he looked up to see a (Japanese? Chinese? He couldn’t tell…) young man, probably about his own age, and with an oversized rucksack slung over his shoulder, let himself into the room. Having dropped his rucksack onto a nearby empty bunk, the new person turned around to find himself being watched, apparently only just noticing Vitaly.

The new person blinked, and then smiled brightly. “Hello,” he said, through a thick accent. “My name is Kamui. It is nice to meet you.” He reached out to shake Vitaly’s hand, and, after a moment to poke his brain into action, Vitaly got to his feet to do so.

“Hello,” he replied, smiling politely and slightly guardedly. “Vitaly.”

“Are you new to the town?” Kamui asked, pointing to Vitaly’s guidebook.

Vitaly thought that was a silly question really – residents didn’t usually hang out in hostels, as far as he knew anyway. “Yes, only yesterday,” was what he said though.

“Me too! This morning.” Kamui grinned again. “I am here for the GP2 school, but I wanted to arrive early, to see the town.”

Vitaly’s smile finally broke into something genuine. “Me too,” he huffed a little laugh. “I thought to go into town today, but, I not understand,” and he gestured to his guidebook.

Kamui laughed, and promptly produced a Japanese guidebook out of his back pocket. “I understand mine. Do you want to go with me?”

Vitaly shrugged, smiled, and nodded. _Why not?_ It couldn’t hurt to make a friend before the course got underway.

Kamui’s blinding grin in reply not only made his eyes disappear, but was completely, _irresistibly_ infectious, and Vitaly found himself almost laughing at nothing already.

*

By the time the course started, just a few days later, not only were Kamui and Vitaly practically inseparable, but they were also the absolute authority amongst the students on the town itself, having explored every backstreet and every inch of the seafront, and visited every single café. And there was no one else on the course who could recommend a better coffee than those two.


	4. Jenson hadn’t realised quite what David had meant by “leave”

“I’m sorry, have I missed something?” Shock made Jenson’s voice higher than normal.

“I thought you were ok with me leaving.”

“When you said _leaving_ I thought you just meant the bar, not the entire town!” Jenson paused in his distraught pacing to put both hands on his head and run them backwards through his hair, before throwing them out in front of him in a desperate plea. “ _Years_ , David, did you really think I’d be ok with you just upping and leaving after how long we’ve been together?? You’re, you’re…” Jenson just made the same despairing motion with his hands.

“I did think you’d taken it rather well, but then again, just thought you’d got fed up of me…” David said, still standing by the doorway. “You’re always talking about, well, _everyone_ else, especially recently, and you’re so much younger than me anyway, and…”

Jenson just stared. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding… You’re, you’re not kidding, are you?”

David shook his head. “I’m sorry Jens, I really didn’t realise that you hadn’t understood what I meant. I mean, you’ve always known what Eddie said, that there’d be a place for me alongside Martin on the cruise liners when I wanted to move on.” He sighed. “This is a young man’s town, Jenson, you know that.” David’s voice was patient, tired even, and it made Jenson pointlessly angry, that David could be tired with any of this, of the job half the town would kill for, of the life he had here, of this town, of _him_ , of _them_ , and it hurt.

“So tell that to Rubens then, or Pedro, and what about Christian, or Stefano, or Ross, any of those, not to mention bloody Frank and Peter!” Jenson’s voice got louder until he was almost shouting, rattling names off as fast as he could think of them. Maybe if he talked fast enough and loud enough David wouldn’t have time to notice the obvious differences.

“I don’t want to stick around here and just, fade away… For god’s sake, Jenson, even _Michael’s_ gone these days.” David shrugged defeatedly. “I’m sorry if you can’t understand that, but I didn’t really expect you to. Not yet. I wouldn’t have done at your age either. And I just don’t think I’ve got it in me to have the competition eyeing me up all day every day anymore.”

“You’re not that old really,” Jenson pleaded. “I was only teasing. I was only ever teasing. And you’re still perfectly good enough to stay, the bar wouldn’t have kept you this long if they didn’t think you could still cut it. You don’t have to leave, you don’t, please don’t.”

“Jens, please, I haven’t taken this lightly.” It was a tone Jenson hadn’t really ever heard before, at least not aimed at him; almost imploring, and that stopped any further even semi-childish retorts before he could think of them. This wasn’t just an argument – it had finished being an argument before Jenson had even realised it could have been one. This was reality now.

Jenson sighed. “I know, I know, this is you, you never do, I know, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I…” He stopped pacing and sank down onto the sofa, legs feeling weak, and sat in silence, his head in his hands.

“What about us then?” he eventually asked.

David didn’t reply immediately.

“I don’t know. I guess we need to talk about that now.”

“I, no, not now. I need to think first. I don’t know what…” Jenson looked up, out of the window of David’s apartment and down to the ocean. Yes, he was younger than David, but it wasn’t by that much, surely? Maybe it had been a bigger thing than he’d realised though, because he couldn’t imagine ever being ready to leave this place. This town was his life, the people, the places, just here. And David was part of that. _Had been_ part of that…

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for long distance,” Jenson admitted after a few moments.

It was a long and honest look that David gave him, and Jenson always felt like there was more going on behind those eyes than he’d ever be aware of when they were looking at him like that. And that David was more than the person he’d ever really let on.

“You’re right,” David said, looking away. “We both need to think about this. But not right now. We’ve still got a few weeks to figure this out.” David moved to join Jenson where he was perched awkwardly on the sofa. “C’mhere,” he said, slinging an arm around Jenson and pulling him close. Jenson reluctantly leant his head on David’s shoulder and shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jens, I really am. But hey, maybe with me gone you’ll find someone your own age, eh?” David said, attempting to sound reassuring. “Or even learn to use a razor…” He rubbed fondly at the scruff on Jenson’s face, but Jenson could barely bring himself to smile.

He was sure he should say something, _Please god don’t go_ , or something like that (that was all that was running through his head right then anyway), but it all seemed so pointless. David had made it pretty clear that the deal was done, and that through chronic misunderstanding Jenson had missed his chance to have any say in the outcome. Not that he probably would have had much say anyway – misunderstanding or not, if that was how David really felt, then Jenson doubted there would have been _anything_ he could have said to convince him to stay.

*

It really didn’t get much more dreadfully, _painfully_ clichéd; watching from the end of the quay as your lover waved goodbye from the deck of an ocean liner. (Maybe one day he’d look back on this and laugh…) He was well aware too that it was stupid to stay there – said liner had sailed, well, it must have been hours ago now, but if he got up and left then David was really gone. And he wasn’t ready to deal with that quite yet.

Maybe they should have at least tried the long distance thing – David had always been pretty damn good at the whole phone sex thing after all… Maybe he shouldn’t have teased so much, maybe he should have tried to grow up a bit. Or maybe he should have fought harder, yelled more, yelled at all, made David realise that he wasn’t just a stupid kid with a crush anymore, that he hadn’t been for years, and that he had a right to a say in their relationship, maybe somehow made him realise quite how much watching him _literally_ sail off into the sunset was going to hurt… Maybe, maybe, maybe. And it wasn’t like he could chase after him now either, throw his arms around his neck and beg him to come back (and Jenson had never begged for _anything_ outside of the bedroom) – even _he_ wasn’t a good enough swimmer to try to catch a _ship_ …

But the stars were out by the time Jenson decided that he really should leave, struggling to stand on legs that were half asleep and starting to burn with pins and needles. They might have spent more nights apart than they did together, but as the door shut behind him his apartment felt emptier somehow, and he curled himself up in his duvet and refused point blank to cry himself to sleep.


	5. Walking the old paths

He’s never sure if he should take these trips down memory lane – nostalgic wanderings don’t make the memories less bittersweet, but they call too strongly sometimes, and he’ll find himself almost without fail retracing the once-familiar path along the waterfront, down the promenade, then up the main avenue and into the smaller, winding streets.

On the face of it, there’s very little left of the town that looks like it used to – the waterfront is full of modern glass-fronted and white-rendered expensive houses, almost every shop and café has had more refits than anyone would care to count, and where the old backstreets used to fade out into ramshackle suburbs there are now new apartment blocks in strange bright colours. The language school’s new complex has sprung up where once Lower Fia had stood, the new road sweeping down the valley, leaving the old winding hill roads to fall into decay and disrepair, grass growing down the middle and the edges crumbling away, and the new hospital where once there was nothing but fields (not that he’ll ever have anything to say against the hospital – had they had that in his day then maybe… but no, they didn’t, and that’s that). But in places, there are touches of the old town, views between old buildings down tiny sidestreets, squares tucked away in narrow alleyways, wrought iron lamps hanging beneath terracotta tiled roofs and shining their light on cobbles worn smooth under decades of passing feet and wheels.

In those places it’s still the same town, just, and through the new development and the constant rebuilds he can still feel that it’s the same place. And it still feels like home.

His meanderings aren’t as long as they used to be – there’s less to see that he remembers every time he visits, and he’s not as young as he used to be either, finding that a bench to watch the world go by from is easier than treading every step of the old paths.

The sun is setting when he makes his way back to the shore, the beach almost empty now that autumn is turning ever more into winter, only a couple of silhouetted figures on the otherwise deserted stretch of sand. The last of the syrupy, golden light plays over the boats in the marina and across the low waves, staining everything a rich copper colour.

This part of town never changes.

He takes a seat on one the benches on the promenade, looking out over the ocean. The air is still and cool around him, and if he closes his eyes it feels almost exactly the same as forty years ago. Except that forty years ago he wasn’t alone.

“It’s probably a good thing you’re not here right now,” he says to the person who always used to be by his side. “You’d have plenty to say about what they’ve done to the place, and I doubt much of it would be polite… Remember our old place? With the mahogany bar and those royal blue carpets? I don’t know how many times they’ve gutted the place, but you can’t even tell what was there before. Not that I’m surprised really. You know what this place is like… It’s called Mercedes now. Nothing to do with the original place though, other than trying their best to look like it. All the places have the wrong names, I don’t know how they’re allowed to do that. You’d recognise Café Ferrari though. That place never changes… And Bruce’s sandwich shop is still there, sort of… I told you about that scrawny little pub I opened down on the waterfront, didn’t I? I must’ve done. Now that I _do_ wish you could see. Well, you can’t see _it_ anymore, though Christian tells me the old building’s part of the back offices these days. It’s one of those disco places nowadays, but it’s nothing like we ever used to have. And the drinks are quite incredible, the lads there put even you to shame, I have to say…” He laughs his slightly hoarse chuckle. “If you were here, I’d take you out for a drink there. Before it got too busy, of course. I’m too old for all that now. But then if you were here you’d be too… I can’t imagine you old…”

There’s no answer. He wishes he didn’t still expect for those milliseconds that there would be one, even now. He’s gone past berating himself for talking as if his old friend was still there though – it does no harm to talk to him now and then, when he’s back in town.

“I do know what you would definitely complain about though – there isn’t even anywhere with a piano these days,” and he smiles quietly to himself, remembering how they’d struggled to get that Steinway in through the bar’s tiny doors, all those years ago.

The sun sets into the sea, the last sliver of orange disappearing into its own shimmering reflection, and the stars start to come out almost immediately, the evening star shining almost dazzlingly brightly. A breeze sighs across the beach, and the waves keep hushing onto the shore. Everything is beautifully still and wholly peaceful.

The peace is broken by the ringing of his phone in his pocket. There’s nothing quite like a ringtone to drag you back into the present.

“Helen, yes my dear. Yes, I’m finished now. I can meet you there. Alright, I’ll see you very soon. Goodbye.” He flicks the phone shut again, tucks it into his jacket pocket, and gets to his feet, slightly stiffly. “Too much walking for one day…” he muses, before brushing down his trouser legs and straightening up, and taking one last look around at the empty beach.

“Until next time, François.”


	6. Ross Brawn calls in the builders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that quote that did the rounds on Tumblr; “Once Champion, I shall sell French wines in the USA.” – François Cevert.

Honda Sushi was no more. For the past week what had once been a fairly quiet restaurant had been replaced with the unholy racket of a building site, the renovation on such a tight schedule that it seemed as if every workman in town was crammed into the premises; sawing, hammering, demolishing, drilling, and yelling all at once, the radio blaring through the air that was thick with dust and solvents. Alongside the professionals, the restaurant’s usual workforce had thrown themselves into the refit with gusto, inexpertly but cheerfully wielding everything from sledgehammers to paint rollers (and Rubens would forever treasure the memory of Ross climbing down his ladder and stepping straight into a tin of lime green paint… the colour didn’t come off his skin for _weeks_ …), and making much less of a mess of it than might have been expected.

Inside, the new carpets were going down, the rooms still smelling of freshly cut wood and new paint, and looking so much brighter and larger in their new white and green livery. Outside though, there was the small matter of taking down the stubborn faux-Japanese wood panelling that covered the _entire_ front of the building.

Jenson’s skin was sticky with dust and sweat, and his hair was damp and falling into his eyes as he levered at the panel above the front door, straining on his crowbar whilst balanced at the top of a slightly unstable stepladder, and wondering how long he’d got until this all went horribly wrong…

The panel came away with a loud creak and a deafening crack, splintering down the middle and breaking into several pieces.

Inevitably, Jenson lost his balance, and the ladder went over with a clatter (and a slightly muffled thud as Jenson himself fell onto some very conveniently placed rolls of new insulation).

It still hurt though, and he was still swearing when Rubens came jogging over to check if he was alright.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, pushing his little mask down to hang around his neck and attempting to dust himself down, before giving up on that endeavour as entirely futile.

“You should have called me, I could have held the ladder at least,” Rubens scolded affectionately, quite happy to be taking the mick now he knew that Jenson was (mostly) unscathed.

Once the ladder was upright once more, and chocked up at one corner so it no longer wobbled like an amateur tightrope walker, Jenson climbed back up with his crowbar over his shoulder (and Rubens stayed to hold the ladder steady).

“Hang on, Rubens, what’s this?” Jenson asked, brushing the cobwebs away from what appeared to be a large, dust-covered plaque, screwed to the wall above the doorway, where the dark wood panelling had been until just moments ago.

“Let’s see,” Rubens said, and Jenson leaned his head out of the way.

**Cevert & Stewart  
** **Purveyors of Fine Wines and Whiskies**

_Mr F Cevert & Mr J Stewart, trading as “Tyrrell’s”,  
_ _Licensed for the sale of alcoholic beverages & liquors  
_ _for consumption both on and off the premises,  
_ _by decree of Mayors Ecclestone & Mosley, 1973_

“What are we going to do about that?” Jenson asked, rubbing the dust off the raised brass letters and making them shine out from the black background.

Rubens examined the plaque for a moment. “ _Tyrrell’s_ , huh… Jackie always used to talk about this place… ” He let out a breath. “I think we should leave it. It should be safe behind the new panelling.” Rubens turned to look at Jenson, who was watching him from the top of the ladder. “That’s the thing with this town. Everywhere’s got history, but we’re all too busy reinventing ourselves to remember… So yes, I think we should leave it right where we found it.”

“Sure.” Jenson tilted his head to one side, and folded his arms, frowning slightly. “In fact, have we got any polish? I’d quite like to give it a good clean before we cover it back up again.”

When Jenson looked down at his colleague again he found him smiling back up at him.

“Good thinking there, Jenson. Yes, that’s a good idea…”

*

When Ross saw the restaurant through its second renovation in the year, they sought out and bought up as many of the antique chandeliers, fittings, and furniture from the original Silver Arrows restaurant as they could get their hands on, shining up the crystal and the brass until it glistened, and polishing the wood until it almost glowed. They repapered the walls, recarpeted the floors, and tore down the lime green and white frontage, replacing it with a smart grey stone façade.

And when Jenson and Nico went out for dinner on their third date, Nico told him about the plaque they’d found above the door, behind some panelling, and how it still gleamed even now.


	7. Why not?

“You look bored.”

Other than a swivel of his eyes, following Jaime as he takes up the other half of the sofa without even asking, Kimi doesn’t move.

“I _am_ bored.”

“Well you would be. You’re by yourself. I’m not surprised you’re bored though, there’s no one interesting here tonight at all.”

Kimi raises an eyebrow at the unintentionally implied insult. Jaime just laughs.

“I like to talk. Everyone knows you don’t.”

“Just because you talk does not mean you are interesting.”

“Oh? And what makes you interesting then, _Mr Iceman_?” There’s an unmistakable challenge in Jaime’s voice, and Kimi smiles the smallest of smirks; _Wouldn’t you like to know._

“Oh, _now_ I’m interested…”

Kimi swills the clear liquid in the bottom of his glass, watching it flow over the pieces of ice, keeping Jaime waiting for a reply. Then he drains it, places the glass back on the table with the slightest of flourishes, and takes a moment to look Jaime up and down, slowly, and without any hint of subtlety.

“Done all your talking for tonight, _Mr DJ?”_ He gives the last two words the same intonation Jaime had given his nickname earlier.

“I’m sure you can give me the incentive to shut up.” Jaime’s grin is feline, even though his tone is even. “You’re right though, it is pretty boring here tonight. Maybe we should go somewhere and make our own entertainment.”

Kimi shakes his head at the dreadful line, but gets to his feet.

“Not even going to buy me a drink?” Jaime makes a little pout, part flirty, part challengingly sulky, looking up at Kimi from where he’s still almost sprawled on the sofa.

“I’ll shut your mouth for you if you don’t shut up.”

Jaime just smirks again, but this time he stands up. “I _like_ you.”


	8. Jenson is the closest thing the Red Bull has to a ‘regular’

“You’ve grown up a lot this year Jens,” Mark observed, leaning on the bar opposite his friend.

“Not sure how to take that Mark, is that a compliment, or…?”

It was a quiet early evening at the Red Bull Bar, the type of time when it was just a bar, rather than the club it turned into as the hours ticked past. It was early enough too that Jenson was the only one there, at his usual barstool, with his usual drink, exactly the same as always, as it had been for years now. If a place like this could have had regulars, then Jenson would have been one. Perhaps Kimi might have counted once too, when he used to turn up and do vodka shots in silence whilst Sebastian talked more _at_ him than _to_ him, but a good few months had passed since he’d left town, so these days it was just Jenson, drinking and chatting to Mark whilst the DJs set up their equipment and the other barmen did their final practice before the night really began.

Mark huffed slightly. “Take it as you will.”

“I shall take it as an insult then, be mortally offended, and demand my next drink on the house,” Jenson chuckled, and pushed his empty glass across the bar to Mark, who sighed overdramatically, but picked it up and went to make the refill anyway.

“You have though,” Mark continued when he returned.

“Yeah well,” Jenson shrugged with a dismissive smile, “it’s been an interesting year… _May you live in interesting times,_ and all that.”

Dismissive or not, it was an easy and relaxed smile, and Mark couldn’t help but return it. Neither could he help but remember just how different things had been a year ago, back when Jenson had kept turning up at the bar like he’d always done before, when he’d come to see David, but looking completely lost, like he hadn’t known where else to go. Back then he’d had only shy, uncertain, anxious half-smiles, nothing like the old Jenson. But these days he was beyond the ‘ _old Jenson_ ’ – it was as if losing David had allowed him to find himself, without the boundaries of someone else to define himself by or anyone to ‘ _outrank_ ’ him, and as if nearly losing his job had given him the kick up the backside to do just that. And he’d found himself to be a quietly confident chef, an easy going friend, and an effortlessly charming flirt… One day, Mark thought, he would buy Ross a drink, and thank him for taking over the old Honda Sushi place when it had gone under, and turning it into a stratospherically fashionable restaurant, with a fusion cuisine menu that had provided Jenson the stage on which to shine, and eventually earn his Michelin star. Mark doubted it was as melodramatic a sentiment as _saving his friend’s life_ , but still, he definitely owed Ross a drink at the very least.

“And you made it your year,” Mark replied. He was really rather proud of Jenson, in a fond, brotherly kind of way.

Jenson laughed. “To my year then,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “And to my best mate. I mean that. What would I have done without you?”

“Spent a lot less on alcohol,” Mark countered, refusing as usual to just accept a compliment, and Jenson shook his head fondly.

“Anyway, it hasn’t been the easiest of years for either of us,” Jenson added, and tilted his head slightly towards Sebastian, busy concocting something mysterious at the other end of the bar.

Mark shrugged. “He may be an irritating upstart of a DJ, but he’s good, Jens, bloody good. I can’t deny that. No matter how much I want to…”

“ _Cute_ upstart of a DJ,” Jenson corrected with a grin, never one to keep a conversation serious for long. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know; I only ever get you to make my drinks.”

“Jens, you think _everyone’s_ cute.”

Jenson laughs properly this time. “You know who else is cute? The blonde pastry chef Ross has been looking at hiring… You know, Nico something, the one from Frank’s place?”

Mark scoffed again. “It’s a wonder you’ve stayed single this long, mate.”

“Been too busy,” Jenson shrugged, with a smile and a glance down at his glass that signalled that avenue of conversation closed. Though Mark knew that ‘ _being busy_ ’ was only half the answer, if even that much – whilst the constant flirting and almost superhuman awareness of nearby attractive people had made a return after several months of uncharacteristic absence, Mark wasn’t sure if Jenson was entirely over David even now.

“Mark, can I borrow you for a moment?” Christian appeared in the doorway to the back room.

“Sure thing boss.” Mark looked at Jenson’s almost empty glass, and then at Sebastian; the only other person in the otherwise empty bar. “Sticking around?” he asked Jenson.

“For a while.”

“Well, if you’re after a third tonight, now’s your chance to see if you agree,” and he tilted his head towards Sebastian (who despite being out of earshot, chose that moment to look up) before departing out back after Christian and leaving Jenson by himself at the bar.

Jenson took his time over his second drink, just thinking to himself and enjoying the quiet (he was never one to rush his drinks), but Mark still wasn’t back when he’d finished, and he didn’t quite feel like going home yet.

As if on cue, Sebastian appeared behind the bar in front of him.

“Staying around for number three?” he asked.

Jenson tilted his glass and looked into the bottom with a slight smile. “Why not,” he said, looking up. “You know what I have, same as always,” and he pushed his glass across the bar.

Sebastian swiped his finger up the inside of the glass and tasted it, making an unimpressed face. “Have you never considered trying something more exciting?” he asked.

“I know what I like,” Jenson shrugged.

“Why not try something different, something new?”

“Are you worried you won’t be able to make my usual as well as Mark does?” he challenged, with a typical bright, flirtatious smile. Sebastian had never been on the receiving end of Jenson’s flirting before now, only ever having watched from the sidelines, and it made his thoughts scramble in his head. In fact, he’d never even had the undivided attention of the man he’d been crushing on all year, and to whom he was nothing more than just Mark’s new colleague, and, worse, his ex’s replacement… Thanks to the latter fact in particular, Sebastian had never dared to even speak to him properly before now.

“No,” Sebastian replied, trying not to sound petulant or pout, suddenly hyper-aware of his every word, his exact tone, how dry his lips were… “I just know I can make something you’ll like better.” He didn’t add that that was because he’d listened in to almost every conversation Jenson had ever had with Mark at the bar in the past year, and knew his tastes off by heart. Or that armed with that knowledge, he’d designed a cocktail he knew Jenson would love.

Jenson laughed, and looked up again at Sebastian, bright eyes sparkling, and there was something in his smile that hadn’t been there even a few moments ago, as if he’d come to a realisation, or a decision, or an understanding of a second layer of meaning in the previous conversation that Sebastian hadn’t even noticed until Jenson had smiled like that.

The smile momentarily became even brighter. “Y’know, maybe you’re right,” Jenson mused, still looking at Sebastian. “I think it is time for something new. What do you suggest I start with?”

Sebastian found he’d been holding his breath. “I know just the thing,” he said, and, with a soppy grin and hope fluttering stupidly in his chest that maybe, ‘ _something new_ ‘ could mean ‘ _someone new_ ’, he set to work on the best drink he’d ever made.

*

Jenson didn’t leave the bar until it was almost too busy and noisy to talk anymore, by which point Sebastian had had to join Mark in dealing with the ever increasing number of customers anyway.

“I suppose I ought to head off now,” he said, sliding off his stool. “But I will see you, with luck, very soon!”

Sebastian grinned, and Jenson winked in reply, and the way that made Sebastian’s stomach actually somersault told him that he was going to be stupidly distracted for the rest of the night…

*

It was a week later, and the bar was still quiet, but it was later than Jenson usually turned up for his weekly drink. Sebastian wouldn’t admit that he was nervous just to see him again – now they were actually talking he finally felt like he was in with a chance, rather than just staring from the sidelines like a hopeless schoolgirl.

He wasn’t staring at the door, definitely not, he just happened to be looking in that direction when Jenson pushed it open, looking even more goddamn attractive than usual, in a smart open-necked shirt, and his sunglasses pushed back onto the top of his head. Sebastian’s thoughts spun at a million miles an hour, a spike of hope at what Jenson dressing up like this just to come to the bar for his usual drink might mean, a desperate wish that he wasn’t stuck in his boring navy work tshirt, worry that the half hour spent in the staff bathrooms earlier that evening trying to make his hair look acceptable wasn’t long enough in the slightest, annoyance that, in his opinion at least, he still looked like a teenager… He grinned madly ( _oh god, not too madly Seb, be cool…_ ) and waved, and Jenson waved back with one of his brain-meltingly bright smiles…

…and held the door to let someone else in behind him, someone with blonde hair and a slightly haughty expression, someone on whom almost all of Jenson’s attention was focussed as they wandered over to Jenson’s usual barstool.

Sebastian’s stomach dropped down to somewhere around his knees, and he could only hope that his mouth hadn’t been hanging open for the entire time since Jenson and his new friend turned up, because he had to shut it very fast indeed when Jenson leaned up against the counter and finally looked at him again.

“Evening Seb!” he grinned brightly. “How are you?” Sebastian didn’t have a chance to reply, not that he was sure he could have formed a sentence right then, so he just tried to smile instead. He probably failed, because Jenson’s new friend was giving him a slightly strange look. “Nico, this is Seb. Seb, Nico. Seb made that incredible cocktail I was telling you about the other day.” He turned back to a still-stunned Sebastian. “Any chance we could have two of those?”

Sebastian nodded, maybe replied, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe. Who knew. He bit his lip, hard, and turned his back to start making those cocktails ( _Jenson’s_ cocktails), and tried to drown out not only their conversation with the rattle of the ice in the shakers and the clink of the bottles and glasses, but his own thoughts, the ‘ _how could you be so stupids_ ’, the ‘ _what were you thinkings_ ’, the ‘ _why did you think he’d ever be interested in_ _yous_ _’_ , the ‘ _you knew you shouldn’t have got your hopes ups_ ’ until the drinks were made and he had to come back to the bar.

He placed both glasses very deliberately in front of just Jenson. But Jenson just passed one straight to Nico, who took a sip, and Jenson absolutely beamed with joy when he smiled at the taste.

“This is definitely very you,” Nico said, and Jenson grinned even more.

“See, I told you they were incredible!” He gave Nico a little punch on the arm, and whilst Nico tried to look unimpressed, he failed completely, a smile creeping up his face, subtly preening under Jenson’s gaze. Sebastian could only stare, and fight down the urge to empty the glass over Nico’s immaculate, long, blond hair. “I’ll settle up here, if you want to pick somewhere to sit?”

Nico took his glass, leaving Jenson at the bar. Sebastian didn’t see where he went. He didn’t care.

“I took your advice,” Jenson said, his voice dropping, and his smile was less dazzling, and much more genuine, grateful even. “Time for something new, eh?” He glanced over his shoulder to where Nico was now sat, at a booth tucked away in the corner, taking off his neat scarf and folding it on the table in front of him. Sebastian’s stomach knotted at Jenson’s expression, all softness and fondness and almost _proud_. “What do you think? Pre-tty gorgeous, wouldn’t you say?” Jenson laughed a genuinely amused little huff, and didn’t seem to notice that Sebastian didn’t reply. Then his voice perked up. “Actually, stick these on my tab. I’m sure they won’t be the only drinks tonight,” and he gave Sebastian another one of his devastating grins before picking up his glass and joining Nico at their table.

Sebastian didn’t stick around to watch the inevitable _nauseating_ flirting. Fuck the bar tonight, fuck what Christian and Mark would say, he needed to be somewhere very far away indeed from sodding _Nico_ and Jenson’s agonisingly adoring expressions. He wished he’d never given Jenson that bloody advice.

*

Mark had been busy with the stockroom for most of the evening, but Sebastian had seemed capable enough at looking after Jenson’s drinks order last time, so he didn’t worry that he wasn’t at the bar until long past the start of his usual shift. It was never busy at that time anyway.

When he came out though, he found the bar completely empty and unattended, neither Jenson nor Sebastian anywhere to be seen.

Within seconds though Jenson appeared, along with a companion that Mark didn’t recognise.

“Have you seen Seb?” Mark asked, as Jenson slid onto a stool, his companion taking a slightly awkward seat beside him.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. He made us our first round and vanished…”

Mark hummed. Disappearing acts weren’t Sebastian’s style, but with the bar unattended, he couldn’t really go looking for him. _Ah well._ Instead Mark finally took a good look at Jenson’s companion.

“So you must be Nico,” he said, with a raise of his eyebrow, but with his hand offered out. Nico nodded, smiled slightly defensively, and shook it.

“And you must be Mark.”

Mark might not have been the most welcoming of people, but he’d do his best to be friendly towards Jenson’s date. It was about time his friend started dating again, in all honesty. Mark plastered on a pleasant expression, and Nico seemed to relax slightly.

“Anyway, now you’re here, you can make the next round,” Jenson declared.

Mark sighed with feigned exasperation. “Yes sir,” he said. “So what’ll it be?” He’d yell at Sebastian for vanishing later. Right now, there were drinks to be made.


	9. Nico and Jenson celebrate a year and half together

If Nico stopped to think about it, then dates didn’t really get much more clichéd – a picnic in the quiet park, their blanket spread beneath a tree in the sunshine, surrounded by the bright colours and soft smells of the flowers, the gentle humming of the bees as they bumbled between blooms, and the technicolour butterflies fluttering around in the warm spring air. But then again dates didn’t get much more typically Jenson either, not when there were fresh strawberries to feed each other, whipped cream, icing, and chocolate sauce to bop onto each other’s noses, and plenty of Jenson’s own pastries and deserts, including cakes that left sugar smudges to lick from the corners of each other’s mouths, until sticky tongues inevitably met in messy kisses… To go with it all, Nico had brought along a bottle of champagne from the Silver Arrows storeroom that he’d heard Michael recommend, because it was a celebration after all – eighteen months together, give or take (they never had known when to count it from) – so why not splash out a little?

And what a year and a half it had been. Eighteen months of spontaneous dates, dinners out, and nights spent drinking and dancing together like no one was watching (or maybe like everyone was watching, because no one was really sure who of the two of them was more proud to be seen with the other), of sneaking leftover desserts and treats out for each other from their workplaces, and of public displays of affection everywhere from afternoons at the beach to grocery shopping trips. And when it was just the two of them, there were the late nights and lazy mornings, talking about nothing and everything as they both dozed off, and waking with tangled and numb limbs but not giving a toss, the breakfasts in bed, and the interrupted showers, because if Nico was going to be all naked and wet like that behind the glass of the shower pane then he couldn’t expect _not_ to be pushed up against the tiles with the water running into their eyes and Jenson’s clothes getting soaked through because he was too impatient to take them off first, and they were both going to be late for work but really, neither of them could bring themselves to care at times likes that…

It had taken Nico a while to get used to dating Jenson – he hadn’t known what to expect from the man who had a reputation as a constant flirt, other than that it would almost certainly be very different indeed from being with Nelson, which had felt virtually adolescent in comparison; all rough and tumble and not even _considering_ any of that sappy romance stuff. Whereas Jenson has wooed him properly from the very beginning, wining and dining and spoiling him at every opportunity, going out of his way to make sure Nico knew quite how much he adored him, and showing no sign of letting up anytime soon, as if he was worried that Nico might forget if he stopped.

But once he’d got used to it, Nico had decided he loved (pretty much) every minute of it. And maybe he really rather enjoyed the attention, and maybe it inflated his ego more than a little, but Jenson said it was about time he was appreciated for how gorgeous, talented, and generally wonderful he was, so he guessed that was okay then.

“I can’t believe how long it’s been,” Nico mused, leaning back against the tree behind them and resting his head sideways onto Jenson’s shoulder, his champagne glass balanced on his knee.

“Can’t believe you’ve put up with me that long?” Jenson winked, twisting a little to look at Nico and tipping his glass in his direction.

“Something along those lines,” Nico smirked, but the look he followed it up with was genuine and said, if anything, that he couldn’t quite believe Jenson had stayed with _him_ that long.

“Must be my sparkling personality,” Jenson grinned.

“You keep telling yourself that…”

Jenson sat up and attempted to look shocked. “Cheeky! Someone’s big-headed today.”

“Your fault,” Nico countered, and his eyes were laughing.

Jenson rubbed his nose against Nico’s, who smirked again, and then held back as Jenson leaned in to kiss him, making him work for it, only to be promptly bowled over backwards by an impatient Jenson who was apparently refusing to wait any longer today (and Nico was lucky to be able to hold his glass steady enough to somehow not spill any champagne, because that stuff definitely shouldn’t be wasted, no matter how damn enjoyable kissing Jenson always was).

“You’re brilliant, you know that?” Nico murmured, as Jenson shifted to lounge next to him on the blanket, gazing at him with soft eyes like he’d never get enough of the sight, and with his hand at the back of Nico’s head, rubbing circles in the soft hair there.

“I know.” Jenson kissed him again, making a contented little noise even at just that almost chaste touch of lips. “Not as brilliant as you though.”

Nico preened and wrinkled his nose as he grinned. “I know.”

The laugh Jenson replied with came from the back of his throat, a low and dirty sound. “And don’t you just know it…”

Jenson’s stubble was almost soft beneath Nico’s fingertips as he ran them down the side of Jenson’s face. “I love you Jens,” he admitted, not for the first time, but he was careful still not to say it too much, to make sure it stayed special (unlike Jenson, who said it probably more often than any other phrase in his vocabulary…).

“I love you too, my dazzling, _delicious_ boy, you.”


	10. Nico isn’t as attention-seeking as his namesake

“You’re thinking again.” Rubens came over to where Nico was sat by the apartment window, staring out to the grey skies with a small frown crinkling his nose and forehead, and ruffled his hair. Nico frowned a little more and swatted Rubens’ hand away, but he didn’t stop Rubens from sitting down next to him and putting his arm around his waist. In the privacy of their own homes Rubens took every opportunity he got for those little fond touches and gentle gestures that Nico cringed at whenever he did them in public, and whilst he knew that pushing the issue wouldn’t get him anywhere - Nico had made himself pretty clear about that; that he really didn’t want people knowing about them, and was more than just _uncomfortable_ with public displays of affection - sometimes Rubens wished he didn’t have to hide all those things that came so naturally to him when they were together. Then Nico slipped his own arm around Rubens’ waist, and, despite the height difference, leaned his head sideways onto Rubens’ shoulder, and Rubens stopped worrying. They had what they had, it worked, and they were both happy, and he was old enough to know when not to ruin a good thing with needless fretting and invented problems.

“So are you going to tell me what it is?”

“Jenson and Britney.”

“What about them?”

“They’re so _public_. It’s like they go out of their way to make sure everyone knows everything about them. How do they go around like that, knowing that everyone’s watching, and worse, talking about them, and what they get up to…? I couldn’t do that. And all they do is talk about each other, how do they even hold a conversation _with_ each other?”

Rubens shrugged. “Some people are just so proud of the people they’re with that they want everyone to see what they see in them; to see the best in them.”

Nico made a face, but shuffled around to lean back against Rubens, who wrapped his other arm around Nico’s waist as well and rubbed his thumb absentmindedly against Nico’s stomach, through the soft fabric of his tshirt.

“How does _making out_ in the middle of Bridgestone Stores make people see the best in someone?”

Rubens couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes he forgot about the age gap, but then Nico would come out with something that would remind him just how much like a (very self-conscious) teenager he could act. Could be. (Almost _was_ …)

“Some people just like the attention…”

“But I don’t _want_ to know what they get up to, thank you.”

“I think sometimes they just forget other people are watching. Jenson was like that at my old place; he talked to himself, even sang sometimes.”

“That’s different, but, I don’t understand that either…”

“Not everyone is as self-conscious as you are, Nico,” Rubens said, and kissed the top of Nico’s head, pulling him even closer. He could see reflected in the window the way Nico screwed his face up again at that, but then Nico crossed his own arms over Rubens’ and hugged at them. “If you didn’t dislike it so much, I would probably forget that there were other people around as well sometimes.” Nico made an unimpressed noise. “But I would never be as bad as Jenson, that much I can promise.”

Nico’s pouting frown vanished, and he laughed, letting his head drop back onto Rubens’ shoulder again.

“Good!”

Quiet fell between them again, just Rubens holding Nico, watching the clouds move in the overcast sky.

“So what are _you_ thinking about?” Nico asked, before the silence felt too serious.

Rubens nuzzled gently at the side of Nico’s hair, stopping with their heads resting together.

“You, of course. What else?”

If it hadn’t been for the reflection in the window, Rubens wouldn’t have seen the boyishly smug smile that Nico couldn’t keep off his face. But he’d have known it was there anyway.


	11. Mornings at Rubens’

The most unfair thing about being so much older than Nico, Rubens had found, was the difference in sex drive he had now compared to what he’d had fifteen years ago. Or even ten years, for that matter… He would love to be able to keep up without trying, but these days he could just about manage one, and then want to never move again and just fall asleep exactly where he was, by which time Nico would have recovered already, and be back kissing at his neck, biting at his shoulder, breathing things into his ear, and practically rutting up against him, more than just _ready_ to go again… That had certainly taken some getting used to (especially the ridiculous things it did to Rubens’ ego to have a tall, blonde, toned, early twenty-something German lad all but begging for him, with little or no encouragement…).

The mornings had taken getting used to as well, when Nico would wake up slowly and groggily, easily able to spend several hours hitting snooze and putting off full consciousness, and hard already (and at least to start with, horribly embarrassed about it), whilst Rubens would wake straight up, but just wanted a cup of coffee and a cuddle… That was probably another age thing, Rubens reflected as he unhooked Nico’s arm from his waist and fumbled for the alarm clock – he’d been fond of more than the odd lazy morning like that when he’d been that age too. But they seemed to have come to a decent enough compromise (even though they both protested that they each had the better side of the deal) - Nico got to sleep in, curled up next to him, and Rubens got to enjoy just having him there, watching him sleep. Because there was no denying that Nico was well worth appreciating at moments like these – completely relaxed and content, lips parted and breathing softly, blue eyes just visible under half closed lids, his dirty-blonde hair sticking up in messy tufts – utterly beautiful.

Rubens settled back under the covers just as Nico shifted closer, still more than half asleep, reaching out blindly to wrap his arm around Rubens’ waist again - as if to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon - and thoroughly ignoring his coaxing that it was almost time to get up. Nico’s body was warm against him, and as Nico pulled himself even closer Rubens could feel him hard against his thigh through the thin fabric of his underwear. And that was the other part of their “compromise” where they couldn’t agree on who had it better - Rubens got to watch Nico wake up, and Nico got to be woken…

The skin beneath his hand was soft as he smoothed down Nico’s stomach, dancing little circles in the trail of hair that crept up from the waistband of his boxers onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbow to watch. Nico shifted at the contact, making the tiniest of sleepy, satisfied noises as Rubens slipped his hand under the elastic, taking him in hand without hesitation, his thumb sliding across the slit and smearing the bead of pre-come over the head. He was rewarded with a soft moan that rose up from Nico’s throat, escaping unevenly as Rubens started to stroke so very slowly, almost caressing him, Nico moving into the touch instinctively, hips rocking upwards, Rubens allowing himself to drink in the sight and increase the tempo just as Nico’s eyes looked like they might open properly. They fell shut again as he groaned, hands spreading over the sheets by his side, gathering the material into handfuls as Rubens adjusted the pace again, alternating faster and slower in a rhythm he knew would have Nico waking up into a haze of pleasure. But then Nico dragged his eyes open, unfocussed with arousal, and looked straight at him, breathing harder now and legs starting to splay apart unconsciously, and Rubens had to swallow a groan at what that sight did to him, his hand faltering as he wished that he could make good on what his body was currently promising him.

Nico whimpered at the lack of movement, too sleepy still to figure out words (not that he would _ever_ admit that he occasionally made such noises).

“Hey,” Rubens whispered, taking his hand away and placing his fingers softly on Nico’s lips. “Hush… I’m not going to leave you like this.” Nico’s eyes were still on Rubens when he licked automatically at his dry lips, his tongue flickering unintentionally over Rubens’ fingers. Then he did it again, but it wasn’t unintentional anymore, running his tongue over them before taking them into his mouth, letting out the smallest of low moans as he did so, and making a delicious warm feeling gather just below Rubens’ stomach.

It wasn’t what he’d intended to do, but he wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity - he withdrew his fingers from Nico’s mouth and moved his hand back to between Nico’s legs, this time to press his fingers at Nico’s entrance, rubbing gently for just a moment. Nico moaned again and wrapped his arms around Rubens’ neck and back, drawing his knees up and trying to pull himself even closer, before Rubens eased his first finger just inside, into the tight and almost velvety heat, gradually sliding in and out, getting progressively deeper, before adding a second, and then crooking them softly just against where he knew would produce the reaction he was after. He watched Nico’s chest rise and fall, little gasps escaping as he was played open, his body still relaxed from sleep and surrendering entirely – he looked utterly exquisite like this, with skin flushed and blotchy across his chest, eyes unable to stay open, moaning quietly, not quite awake even yet, and almost helpless under Rubens’ touch. Then Nico’s entire body tensed, breath stuttering to a stop, and Rubens stilled his fingers briefly, waiting for the first wave of pleasure to subside.

Not long after Rubens started his fingers moving again, rubbing with tiny movements inside Nico, making him gasp and push himself downwards, Nico apparently woke up, because he reached to grab his own cock, stroking himself with erratic jerks, his breathing ragged.

“No, that’s my job right now…” Rubens murmured, gently pulling his fingers out and pushing Nico’s hand away. Nico whimpered, but Rubens replaced Nico’s hand with his own, keeping to a slower, firmer rhythm (which Nico might complain about when he wasn’t half asleep and wound up this tight, but that Rubens knew was worth it).

It didn’t take very long at all before Nico’s breath started coming in shallow, desperate pants, and then he was crying out, arching off the bed and with his nails digging tight into Rubens’ arm whilst his orgasm flared through him, Rubens kissing his forehead tenderly and Nico’s come slick over his fingers as he milked him through to the very end, until it faded away and Nico came back to him.

*

“I always feel a bit bad about this,” Nico mumbled, tucked up close but awake now, and thinking just about straight.

Rubens just shrugged and stroked Nico’s hair fondly. “You know I don’t really do mornings.”

“You did the first night,” Nico retorted, and pouted in confusion when Rubens laughed at that.

“Do you really think I was going to turn down what I thought was the last opportunity I was ever going to get with you? Plus, well… I hadn’t exactly had anything much for a while back then…”

“The last time?” Nico propped himself up on folded arms to look down at Rubens, still frowning slightly. “It had only been the first time the night before…”

“And I’d spent almost the entire night psyching myself up for you to be gone when I woke up, and even on the most tiny chance that you’d still be here in the morning, for you to come into work in the evening and tell me that it was all a big mistake, and could we just forget it ever happened, and for you to never speak to me properly again…”

Nico wrinkled his nose and smiled. “You’re an idiot.”

“Look at you, Nico, and look at me, and then tell me I was being ridiculous.”

The wrinkle got bigger, as did the smile. “You were being ridiculous,” he said.

Rubens was stronger than he looked, and with just one hand and without moving otherwise he’d given Nico a playful shove to sprawl him onto his back, making Nico almost giggle. Then he rolled over to mirror Nico’s position from moments before.

“I wouldn’t have done that, Rubens,” Nico finished honestly. “This is me.”

Rubens ran his fingers almost dreamily down Nico’s chest. “Yes… yes it is…” and he met Nico’s eyes once more.

Nico’s expression changed to something positively _sinful_. “You sure I can’t convince you to make today an exception, old man?” he grinned.

Rubens didn’t think he was going to need much convincing at all this morning. Which was a good thing, because it doesn’t look like he was going to have much choice in the matter. Not that he was complaining…


	12. Untitled

The sound currently coming from Seb’s pocket was most definitely _not_ his ringtone – he wasn’t one for songs instead of just a clear ringing tone, especially not slightly trippy dance music. Except it definitely _was_ his phone in his pocket…

“Goddammit Jaime, stop messing with the settings on this thing,” he muttered. He decided to answer in German, just to annoy his friend.

“Guten Morgen,” he said, with an almost unnatural cheerfulness.

“Hola mi guapo amigo,” Jaime’s voice purred in reply. “¿Qué tal?”

Sebastian’s command of Spanish ended at Jaime’s first word, and his friend giggled at his irritated muttering.

“Speak something I understand, dammit. What do you want anyway?”

“I’m _bored_ Seb,” he drawled.

“How are you bored? Isn’t this your first day off in weeks, Mr Three Jobs Alguersuari?”

Jaime sighed exaggeratedly. “Precisely. I’m bored. Do you wanna come over?”

“What, so I can be right there to listen to you whining? I’ll pass.”

“Oh come on. We can go to the beach?”

Seb sighs – Jaime sounds like he’s in one of those moods where he won’t shut up until he gets what he wants, and he really can’t be bothered to put up a fight.

“Fine, I’ll come over. But you had better make it worth my while.”

The laugh that Jaime answered with was one of the dirtiest things Seb had ever heard.

“I’m sure I can make it up to you somehow…”

“Scheisse, Jaime, if you’d just said you meant that type of bored, I’d have been there ten minutes ago!”

Jaime positively guffawed. “You’re terrible.”

“Coming from you,” Seb retorted, already with his keys in hand and letting himself out of his apartment door.

“No, coming _for_ me, Seb…” Seb spluttered and Jaime laughed again. “But whatever, just get your ass over here. In case I get too bored and decide to start without you.”


	13. Sébastien meets his new colleague

It wasn’t easy working alongside Jaime, certainly not in their line of work, when putting on a show and outclassing the opposition (be they rival clubs or your own colleagues) was the whole point of what they did. And Jaime certainly had a flair for getting everyone’s attention - from a distance it was a painfully on-trend dress sense and those dark Spanish looks, whilst up close it was his soft accent and _incredible_ eyes, coupled with the freckles sprinkled across his deceptively innocent-looking face, that would break into a _devastating_ smile that was wicked without even trying, all of which together made you forget mid-sentence what you were trying to say, or think, or, well, _everything_ , far too easily… And put him at the centre of attention and he’d transform again, alternating a concentration so focussed that it was as if nothing existed beyond the music in his headphones and the decks in front of him, with an effortless showmanship, complete with teasing winks and mischievous little expressions, that had unsuspecting clubbers and staff alike practically falling at his feet.

When he’d first been introduced to Jaime, a few months into his time with Toro Rosso club nights, Sébastien had been lost for words when he’d had that thousand-watt smile unleashed upon him, and the way that Jaime had laughed at the appalling joke he’d make to “break the ice” (he can’t even remember what the joke _was_ now, but he remembers that really, it wasn’t actually funny at all…) had made him go just a little weak at the knees… But he’d dismissed it simply as the new boy wanting to make a good impression.

But Jaime had kept smiling at him like that, and laughing at his terrible jokes, bringing him drinks when they were doing a set together, and sitting just a little bit too close, or giving him what were frankly unnecessary little touches as they talked or worked, and it made him feel a little dizzy that _Jaime,_ Spanish heart-throb, effortlessly gorgeous and talented _Jaime_ could possibly be even vaguely interested in gawky, occasionally shy, dull, quiet Sébastien. As the weeks passed, he found himself going out of his way to be helpful, polite, and interesting, to do anything that might keep Jaime’s attention; turning up early to make sure he was there when Jaime arrived, offering to clear up after their sets, and staying around long after his sets were done just to be there whilst Jaime was, and watch as he charmed almost everyone he met.

It was watching him, though, that made Sébastien realise that Jaime flirted with _everyone_ , almost indiscriminately - from the waitresses who’d twirl their hair and giggle just to hear him say _Hola chicas_ , to the bar manager, who would trip over his words when Jaime stuck his tongue out between his teeth and wetted his bottom lip, looking up from under his dark eyelashes and humming his agreement to whatever he’d just been told. He’d noticed how, when the older chef from Brawn’s turned up, Jaime softened everything about himself, and they’d sit and chat together for far longer than anyone might expect, considering how little they should have in common. Worse though, he’d seen the touches and looks Jaime exchanged with the younger barman, and seen them sneak off into the storerooms together more than once. He’d even seen Jaime pull out all the stops to properly _seduce_ the older barman; the chiselled Aussie that Jaime seemed to chase purely because he seemed unaffected by the soft rolled Rs and sparkling expressions that brought mere mortals to their knees (but then Jaime didn’t see the full on _leers_ the barman gave him when he wasn’t looking…).

Sébastien didn’t explain to Jaime why he was neither sticking around to help clear up nor turning up so early anymore, or even why he’d started being so quiet these days. There wasn’t any reason to tell him - he didn’t exactly have the right to feel offended, or betrayed, or used, or any of those melodramatic emotions he was refusing to let get the better of him - it wasn’t as if Jaime had led him on, or said anything to make him think that way. He’d just been naive enough to let it all go straight to his head.

Then Jaime had stopped him one night, all flirting aside, and asked him straight if he was ok. If there was anything wrong, because he had been acting funny these past few weeks, and Jaime was worried. Sébastien had shrugged, tried to blow him off with something along the lines of he’d not been feeling like himself of late (which in itself was true enough, or perhaps it was _more_ like himself, when the weeks beforehand had been this deludedly delighted version of himself that he’d barely recognised when he thought back to it…).

“If I can help, you tell me, ok?” Jaime had said, “Because I miss having my friend around.”

It should have hurt far more than it did, to finally have it confirmed that no, there wasn’t anything at all between them, but it didn’t. Because he was Jaime’s friend. Fashionable, gorgeous, popular Jaime counted _him_ as a friend. And so what if he was a dreadful flirt and a bit promiscuous? That certainly hadn’t mattered when Sébastien thought he could have had more. As Jaime disappeared back into the club, to take up the decks and finish the night in style (like he always did), Sébastien couldn’t help but smile to himself. He could do just friends. It was certainly better than nothing.

*

Two and a half years of “just friends” later (spent roaming the streets together on the warm summer nights, handing out their club night flyers to the partygoers, and taking bets on how many numbers Jaime would end up with by the end of the night, and whether Séb could get _any,_ even if he tried (although Jaime said Séb was never really trying when he was there…), spent hearing most definitely too many details of Jaime’s sex life, and being woken _far_ too early in the morning by Jaime hammering on his front door, demanding company to enjoy the surf whilst the beach was still quiet, spent taking so long packing up after their sets - having been distracted by talking and joking together about nothing that ever seemed memorable, but never seemed unimportant - that only the doormen Ciaron and Rocky were left, yelling at them to hurry up so they could all go home, and then going straight to Café Ferrari for a morning coffee, and spent staying up until the early hours together even on their rare nights off, playing new music they’d found at volumes that got them in trouble with their landlords and neighbours, and sharing their hopes and wishes and plans over a couple of drinks in their tiny flats, dreaming as big as the limits of their imaginations would allow them, until the sun came up and any chance of a decent night’s sleep was out the window entirely), Sébastien discovered that there was a DJ job going at one of the premier restaurants-turned-clubs up north in Le Mans.

He applied for it. New experiences, new challenges, and all that. And everyone knew that you didn’t get anywhere if you didn’t have ambition. There was no such thing as the easy life, especially in this town.

When Sébastien told Jaime he was leaving town, Jaime flung his arms around him and hugged him like he was never going to let go. Two and a half years ago that would have turned Sébastien into a stuttering incoherent mess, but now, even though he couldn’t have said with any conviction that he was _over_ Jaime (who could be, if they had to work that closely with him almost every day, or had spent that much time with him over the years?) he could hug Jaime back without overthinking it, and appreciate and enjoy it just for what it was.

“I am going to miss you, Séb! What am I going to do without my best friend in town?” And Jaime had held him by the shoulders, leaned back slightly, looked straight into his eyes, and said with nothing but honesty in his voice, “But no matter how far away you go, you will still always be that.”

When Sébastien got around to thinking about that, he reckoned that, in fact, that was probably better than anything else he and Jaime could ever have had together.


	14. Flash forward

Rob knew Felipe. It was one of those things that had sneaked up on him over time – that it wasn’t just a conscious itemised list, like his favourite colour, favourite film, how he liked his coffee, how likely Rob was to end up without any duvet of a morning, but something deeper, bone deep, even soul deep Rob might say, if he was feeling _particularly_ sentimental. He could read Felipe’s moods without trying, knowing from tiny details that Rob couldn’t explain even if he was asked how his boyfriend felt, what would placate him (and what wouldn’t), how likely Felipe was to skive the washing up, how his day at work had been, and how he would react to news. Rob wouldn’t need to ask, and Felipe wouldn’t need to explain (except when Rob knew Felipe needed to talk) – they’d both just know.

He knows too that Felipe’s no pushover, no matter what people (don’t bother to even) whisper in town. He’s latin, hot headed, feisty, passionate, funny, and _strong_ , so much stronger than people give him credit for, to be so forgiving, to be loyal almost to a fault, and to be so magnanimous, but never, never a pushover.

So Rob knows that Felipe’s been having a tough time at work, he reads it in the slight slump of the shoulders when he gets home, _another day of too many harsh comments from the management_ , the reluctance to get up in the mornings even more than his usual level, _dreading another day feeling undervalued and put down_ , and the slightly aggressive way he makes coffee at home, _he’s just as good as he used to be, why doesn’t anyone else see that?_ And Rob knows when his job is under threat, from the slightly fixed smile, _refusing to let it show if it’s getting to him_ , the late arrivals home, _putting in the extra hours, determined to show his loyalty, his worth_ , and the worryingly neat state of his uniform, _look what a good face I am for the café, look at my pride in this place and my work._ And he sees how it’s not getting any better, and he doesn’t need to ask, because he knows, and he knows that Felipe feels it’s his own battle to fight. Until Felipe comes home one night and sits on the very edge of the sofa, and looks up at Rob like he’s got something to apologise for, and it breaks Rob’s heart, and Rob’s on his knees before him, holding his face in his hands and looking into those chocolate eyes and failing to stay even slightly composed as he tells Felipe over and over again not to say sorry, that he’s got nothing to be sorry for, that he’s not disappointed, he’ll never be disappointed, and that it’ll be okay, it will be fine, he won’t let it be anything other than fine, until Felipe manages struggles out that he _knows_ , but that it still hurts, and Rob has to stop crying because Felipe is sobbing onto his shoulder, soaking through the material with tears and sniffing hiccups of unrestrained distress.

*

Rob wants to be pleased for Felipe, of course he does, but _Williams_ … Well there was Rubens, and then there was Bruno, and they all went there with high hopes and big words… only to leave town a couple of years later, refusing to bitch as much as they were entitled to about mismanagement and misinformation, and looking downhearted and defeated, before they had to leave town, their résumés in tatters. Williams isn’t the place it used to be, now just a fading restaurant on the edge of the town centre. Felipe deserves better than that.

So Rob smiles as best he can, hugs him, and tries not to let his worries show.

But Rob knows Felipe knows all this, and Rob knows Felipe, so he’s surprised by how upbeat Felipe sounds, quietly confident and like he’s facing down a villain with his magazine empty, but the villain doesn’t know he’s got a sniper in the wings ready for the word. Rob’s unnerved, because Felipe must be keeping something from him, keeping something from everyone really, and his poker face is never normally this good.

The next thing Rob knows is that there are cocktail glasses in the kitchen, and the leftovers from their housewarming party all those months ago are joined by upmarket bottles with elegant labels, none of which have the sticky remains of the Pirelli Stores price label that their purchases are usually afflicted with.

He has to ask. Because for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t know.

Felipe smiles a knowing smile.

“Claire has a plan,” he says, and he grins.

“Don’t I get to know any of this then?” Rob asks, trying to keep his eyebrows down.

“For now it is a secret, but everyone will know when the time is right.”

“So I don’t get any preview perks for putting up with you 24/7?” Rob quips, and Felipe glares in a way that threatens to turn into a childish stuck out tongue. But then he tilts his head to one side, considering.

“Okay, I will give you a clue.” Then he’s at the desk drawer, rummaging around and eventually finding Rob’s felt tips, before he’s back again, rolling up Rob’s sleeve and choosing a colour.

“It’s a good thing I trust you,” Rob mutters, as Felipe draws a thick, red line across Rob’s arm, “because I have no idea what you’re on about right now.”

Felipe just grins cheekily, and swaps the red for two blues, a navy, much like the shirts he’s been obsessively buying these past few months, and a pale one. He alternates thinner lines of pale and dark, pale and dark on each side of the thick red line, and then leans back, hand still wrapped around Rob’s wrist, felt tip hovering in the air as he admires his work.

“There. That is your clue.”

Rob frowns, twisting his entire arm around to try to figure out the meaning behind the colours he now has temporarily tattooed on his skin, but nothing is forthcoming.

“Really bloody helpful there, Felipe…”

“You are meant to be the clever one!” Felipe teases with exasperation.

“I never said that,” Rob protests, because Felipe isn’t stupid, even if he can be a bit childish at times…

“You do maths, design, university, and now build coffee machines that even Fernando does not understand,” and Rob doesn’t miss the momentary flicker of vindication in Felipe’s eyes at that little fact. “I make coffee. You are the clever one.”

Rob feels that he should reply, correct Felipe when he’s putting down his own intelligence, but he’s aware they’re getting sidetracked.

“You will figure it out,” Felipe insists, clicking the lids back onto the pens and sliding the drawer closed, before sauntering into the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Er, tea please,” Rob answers distractedly, still staring at his arm, and missing the obligatory tutting from Felipe in the other room.

*

Rob goes out for a drink with some of his mates from work that night. The Red Bull isn’t ideal for the pub style evening that Rob would prefer, but it’s quiet enough when they first open, and they’ve got the range of drinks to keep everyone happy. That doesn’t stop them bemoaning, as they so often do, the lack of a real pub, or even a quiet bar anywhere in town these days, talking about venues long closed, of Jordan’s, of Minardi’s, of Stewart’s, that became the Jaguar Bar, until they’re talking about places far back in the town’s history, Tyrrell’s Wine and Whiskeys, The Alfa Romeo, places they only know from stories and faded photographs.

All the talk of the old bars makes them start remembering the dated drinks and retro cocktails of their youth, discussing terrible cheap wines, babycham, tequila sunrises, pina coladas, daiquiris, martinis, and…

Rob blinks, stopped mid motion as connections slam together in his head.

Red, blue, and navy.

Martinis.

Williams are opening a Martini bar.

Rob _grins_ , realigning with reality to find Giuliano waving a hand in front of his face.

“Rob? Are you with us?”

He can’t stop smiling though, the proud, soppy grin that everyone recognises.

“Felipe’s gonna be ok,” he states, a fact as secure as the sun rising in the east and Fia’s mayor being a corrupt nutcase, and raises his glass.

The boys don’t bother to question the reasoning behind Rob’s sudden declaration, but that doesn’t mean they doubt it either.

“To Felipe,” Giuliano nods, and they all touch glasses.

“He is a fighter, Rob,” Francesco adds. “We all know he will be more than just fine.”

Rob laughs out loud, because he’s just spotted an item on the menu. An espresso martini.

“Oh yes. Don’t I just know it.”


End file.
